I’d like to go to Baabados, or Buck-buck-buck-ingham Palace, or even the moo-n, but I’m stuck here on the farm, all mud and squelch, and the smell of animals. I’m up before the sun, milking and minding. I’m late to bed, after feeding and cleaning out. I work in the sunshine, I work in the rain. I’m asset rich and cash poor.
I work with the basic elements of life. I’m an alchemist, weaving sunlight and water, earth and oxygen, into bread and cakes, cheese and pancakes, apple pies and beef bourguignon. Without me, you’d be a hunter gatherer. Without me, there’d be no Taj Mahal, no Mona Lisa, no Romeo and Juliet, no Spiderman, no Statue of Liberty. I’m the foundation on which all culture was built. It was my work, my labour with dirt and muck, my grubby hands and aching back, that freed mankind to gaze at the stars and to dream of glittering cities, mirrored ballrooms, and the Ode to Joy.
I’m there beside you at the breakfast table. I’m there when you pull on your cotton socks, your woolly jumper. I’m there as you stir sugar into your latte, as you snap off a piece of chocolate, as you pull up the zip on your shiny new boots.
I’m the story under the story of civilisation. Don’t forget me.
This is for Linda’s Saturday Stream of Consciousness. The prompt this week is “on the farm” – with extra points for incorporating animal noise puns. I thought this was going to head off in an amusing direction after those excruciating puns, but it didn’t. That’s SOC for you.